


first burn

by ricciardos



Series: spy au [4]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: (angst to the absolute max pun intended), Angst, M/M, MORE LIKE AN ALTERNATE version of my spy au, spy AU, there are mentions of blood/guns/knives but nothing too graphic, this is WAY darker than what i would usually go for though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:06:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26113117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricciardos/pseuds/ricciardos
Summary: Bullets + blood + the threat of imminent death = a certain amount of intimacy
Relationships: Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen
Series: spy au [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759654
Comments: 13
Kudos: 26





	first burn

**Author's Note:**

> in terms of timeline, this isn’t part of my canon spy au series but sort of an alternate timeline that i thought would be fun to explore! apologies beforehand for any mistakes, but special thanks to @ravenclawqueer and @jeepersricciardo on tumblr for helping me beta this 
> 
> (can be read as a stand-alone)

Max had never addressed an older man by his first name before. 

There’s just something that feels inherently _wrong_ about looking at someone who’s had a decade or two more life experience than you, and calling them by their first name. It’s to bring yourself up to their level, or more accurately -- bring them down to your level. 

It makes Max uncomfortable. He hates it. 

But perhaps, these circumstances demanded a first name basis. 

(These circumstances: standing in a deadlock with 2 other agents. 4 guns pointed at him, 2 of his own pointing back.) 

_“I’m only going to ask this once, Fernando.”_

Bullets plus blood plus the threat of imminent death equalled a certain amount of intimacy. 

_“That’s good -- because one chance is all you get.”_

Fernando’s voice is mocking. Mocking, against the hollow vastness of the mansion where Daniel lies motionless on the floor, the patch of blood long soaked through the white of his inner suit. 

Max is a MI6 prodigy. A mathematical genius, an unexploded grenade on the field, touted to become the next best thing. He’s received years of medical training, taught by the very greats of the Academy like Jenson Button. 

Hell, he’s even been called to patch up Lewis once or twice. You don’t just call anyone to patch up the M of MI6. 

He can estimate how long Daniel has left, judging by the speed that the blood has started to form a morbid blossom at the back of his clothes. He can roughly put a finger on how effective the bandaging will be after a stab wound like that.

Fernando did Daniel no favours by hitting him in the place Max knows he has the most time to suffer before he bleeds out to death on the marble floors of the mansion. 

He knows Fernando isn't the big fish here. He knows. 

He knows the one they’re after is Antonio, long gone in his helicopter running from the escape house in Madrid, where they are now. He knows.

He knows he’s supposed to bring Fernando, the biggest underboss they’ve caught so far, in for questioning. 

He knows. 

It doesn’t mean he cares. 

Because Max doesn’t need to close his eyes to see the bodies of all the men Fernando has killed over the past decade. 

Max doesn’t even need to turn a corner in the mental maze of his compartmentalised memories before he sees himself called in the middle of training and lessons to the morgue over and over again, asked to identify agents with their bloody nails and unseeing eyes. 

Max doesn’t need to think very hard to imagine a world where the one person who means more to him than life itself is wasting away at the foot of Fernando’s marble staircase, whilst Fernando sits in a leather chair and awaits Max’s next move. 

_“Let Daniel go. Now.”_

His hand holds the gun steadily, pointed right between the eyes of each dispensable agent Fernando has sent to buy himself time. 

Fernando’s voice is bored. He drums his fingernails on the armchair of the leather seat, the sickening rhythm imprinting itself into Max’s brain. 

_“And miss my chance to kick a few more pawns off the chess board?”_

He spares a glance at Daniel. 

By now, his back has been soaked bloody. His sympathetic nervous system has started to kick in, and he’s twitching slightly. 

Max has only been on 7 missions. 

_“Only one of us is walking out here today, cabron.”_

Each of them, a roaring success. 

_“I could kill you. Right now.”_

Each of them, with Daniel by his side. 

In his ear, the agent back at base is frantic. He’s urgently shouting instructions into Max’s ear about what to do, what to say, how to act, that backup is on the way-

_“But can you?”_

Max rips the earphones out of his ear and throws it on the ground. In front of him, the bodyguards stiffen and take one step back. 

Pierre is going to give him hell for that, but none of that really matters anymore. 

What do you do when your partner is fighting for his life? 

What do you do when the person who has demanded your attention for the past decade is standing right in front of you, a sitting duck? 

There is no more reason. 

There is no more logic. 

There is only vengeance. And perhaps, he does this for love. 

Love. The strongest, weakest, most foolish justification in the world. 

The only word that comes to mind as he maneuvers the gun to shoot both bodyguards while turning his gun at the last second to shoot Fernando clean. 

-

There is no time. 

There is no time as Max trips over the bodies lying on the ground, trips over his own feet dashing across the hallway and crouches beside Daniel’s body to rip the shirt open and locate the stab wound. 

There is no time. 

There is no time as Max rips open his MI6 jacket to tie around his wound, before smoothening Dan’s curls against his forehead as he injects a shot of morphine into his arm. 

There is no time. 

There is no time as Max feels Daniel’s cold forearm lying on his legs, begging him to please please stay with him for a few more minutes until help arrives. 

-

Back at MI6, Max watches through the glass as surgeons operate round the clock on Daniel. He barely registers Valtteri’s presence as he walks up beside him, a hand placed intentionally beside him. 

“Something’s up. They knew we were coming.”

Valtteri is silent. Max knows that the cogs are turning in his head, trying to figure out the potential breach of information. 

Max is too tired to analyse Valtteri anymore. 

On any given day, he would have jumped at the chance. The man’s an enigma. What’s there not to love? 

But Max is tired.

Tired, because hatred was the steel strut that kept him upright. He never realised how much the hatred coiled itself and supported him like a brace, keeping him afloat mission after mission after mission to get to where he was today. 

There were no more personal vendettas to settle. No more men he wanted to punish for their sins, their unforgivable-

In this lifetime, a spirit fueled by vengeance minus the source of hate amounted to nothing. 

He watches Daniel’s heart rate on the monitor. He watches as surgeons pull thread and stitch skin, trying their best to save whatever they can. 

He presses his forehead to the glass, pressing on his palms. He dips his head slightly, averting his gaze from the surgeon’s table where Daniel lays pale. 

He can recognise the signs before the surgeons can. 

There is frantic shuffling in the room. A voice yells to bring the AED, and the yelling of orders to stand back and the sound of the electric charging penetrate the glass barrier between life and death, Max and Daniel. 

Max keeps his eyes down. He doesn’t know if he can bear to watch. Frankly, it’s taking all his energy to not break the glass and rush in now. 

A few more charges. 

Max utters a silent prayer to whoever is listening. He closes his eyes, and prays, prays, prays. 

-

In his mind’s eye, Daniel is smiling. He is smiling one of his usual smiles, and he clutches Max’s hand overdramatically, telling him in a singsong voice that he will never leave him. 

_The world isn’t that big love -- you aren’t getting rid of me so easily._

Max slaps his arm away, uttering a reluctant chuckle as Daniel pulls him into a spin on the grass fields just outside of the Madrid city center. The day before they’re set to infiltrate Fernando’s safe house.

-

The coroner announces time of death.

3.30pm, Tuesday afternoon. 

-

Max is standing alone at the casket, feeling the light drops of rain on his face. 

There is a bouquet of sunflowers, decorating the side of the casket. 

(Daniel always wanted sunflowers.)

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments always appreciated! I’m on tumblr @albon-and-gang :-)


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